“It’s not a package. I mean, it is, but there’s nothing dangerous inside. It’s a quilt. I just want to give the governor a quilt.”
A red head popped up over the shoulders of the two fit young men.
“A quilt? Somebody made me a quilt? Can I see it?”
She muscled her way between the two men, who looked none too happy about the situation. Hope glanced at the taller of the two, her eyes silently asking permission to move. The man frowned and gave a short nod.
Hope knelt down, ripped away the plastic cover, and then got to her feet again, unfurling Mandy’s quilt with a purple and periwinkle flourish. The governor gasped.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous! What’s the pattern? My grandmother was an avid quilter, but I don’t recognize this block. And you made it for me?”
“It’s called Dove in the Window, an old block and a beautiful one. A friend and I stitched a few of the blocks and finished the quilting and binding, but most of the piecing was done by a young woman named Mandy. She’s an inmate at the women’s prison and I’m her teacher, or was, until a couple of weeks ago when the program was ended.
“There’s a letter pinned to the back of the quilt,” Hope said, placing the quilt in Governor Russman’s arms, “but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to tell you about it.”
“Governor?” One of the tall and fit young men took a step forward. “Ma’am, you’ve got your final Japan briefing in forty-five minutes.”
“And I need to shower and get changed beforehand,” the governor said, then turned toward Hope. “What’s your name?”
“Hope Carpenter.”
“Nice to meet you, Hope. I’m Norma Russman.” The governor extended her hand. Hope shook it. “And I’ve got exactly five minutes.”
Chapter 43
“Mr. Hernandez? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Please hold for the governor.”
Though there was no one but himself in his office and Governor Russman wouldn’t be able to see him through the phone, David suddenly felt the need to sit up in his chair, straighten his tie, and square his shoulders.
When Steve Vincent, the aide to the governor who served as the liaison for the commission on prison reform, called a couple of weeks before, David hadn’t been surprised. They’d already chatted once or twice about David’s forthcoming report on programming for the female prison population, a report David anticipated putting a lot of time into only to see it gather dust on some shelf at the capitol.
The surprising part was when Steve started asking specific questions about the quilting pilot program. David hadn’t discussed it with him or really with anyone outside the prison. But somehow, Steve knew about it. Apparently, the governor did too and wanted to know more.
When David explained that the program, while initially promising, had been suspended because of safety concerns, Steve said that the governor wanted a report anyway, along with any information about the other programs they’d been working on—the arts and crafts classes, the family preservation project, and the practical living initiative.
“Well, the arts and crafts classes had to be suspended along with the quilting pilot. But the new teacher came on board last week, so that’s back on track. The practical living initiative is still in the idea phase,” David explained. “We’d target inmates who have less than a year left on their sentence and offer classes in basic life skills—budgeting, financial education, job interview techniques, even basic meal planning, nutrition, and grocery-shopping skills, real rubber-meets-the-road stuff, the kinds of skills that are assumed but which a lot of our population missed along the way.”
“So? Kind of like Home Ec? Sounds interesting. Got somebody in mind who can teach all that?”
David paused, sighing inwardly. He’d sprouted a lot of gray hair in the last six months. He probably couldn’t blame all of that on Hope—he was in his mid-forties—but it was hard not to believe she hadn’t sped the process. The woman was very good at her job but such a pain. But, he had to admit, less so toward the end than she’d been in the beginning. If inmates could be reformed, maybe Hope could as well? Still . . .
“Uh, no,” David said. “Not right now.”
“Well, sounds like something worth exploring. Anyway, I’d like for you to write all this up—especially the quilting thing. The governor wants to dig into this.”
“Okay,” David replied. “Say, any idea how she heard about it?”
“Not a clue. All I know is she wants to put it on the front burner, so if you could write it up and send it over by ten o’clock tomorrow morning—”
“Tomorrow morning? What’s the rush?”
“She’s flying to Japan tomorrow and wants to read the report on the plane. Hey, David, gotta go. I’m late for a meeting. You on this?”
“Sure,” David said. “Not a problem. You’ll have it by ten tomorrow.”
David had stayed up half the night writing the report and e-mailed it to Steve at 9:51 a.m. the next day. Exactly six minutes later, Steve e-mailed back: Thanks, buddy. Appreciate it.
And then . . . nothing.
It was disappointing but not unexpected. This was far from the first time that David had pushed to finish something somebody said they absolutely had to have as soon as humanly possible, only to send the work and never hear from them again. It was part of the job.
But now the governor was calling.
Once they got through pleasantries and her apology for taking so long to get back to him, it was clear that Governor Russman had not only read his report but also spent a lot of time thinking about it. Her questions were insightful and her commitment to prison reform and willingness to roll up her sleeves and make it happen was genuine, the furthest thing from election year grandstanding. Next time, David told himself, he was definitely voting for Russman.
“Well, I think the practical living program is definitely worth pursuing,” the governor said, about fifteen minutes into the conversation. “I’ve already got people working on the funding. It looks like we’ve only got room in the budget to fund a part-time position, but you might want to start thinking about staffing.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—I do have someone in mind.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about the quilting pilot program. As I understand it, the cancellation was specifically based on safety concerns. Otherwise, it had been very successful, is that right?”
David detailed the circumstances and thinking behind his decision.
“Uh-huh,” the governor said. “I think that was a reasonable response. But it also sounds like you limited participation to inmates with good behavior records and had very strict safety procedures in place that, up until the incident, had been effective. And when it was looked into later, nothing was missing from the cabinet?”
“That’s right, ma’am. All four blades were still in the cabinet.”
“So, the weapon in question might not have come from the classroom at all, isn’t that true? I mean, if you were dealing with fifty blades, or even twenty, it’s easier to believe there could have been a miscount. But four? You don’t need to be an accountant to tally up four blades. So, it’s possible the one used in the incident could have been smuggled in by some other means.”
Before running for office, the governor had worked in the public defender’s office. Her interrogation skills had not diminished. David wiped a sweating palm on his pants leg and coughed.
“We’re very careful about screening and searches, but yes. That is a possibility. However, since we couldn’t prove it one way or another, I thought it best to err on the side of safety.”
“Agree completely,” Governor Russman replied. “Safety has to take highest priority. And I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to run your institution; your record speaks for itself. But if you could prove that the blade was smuggled in by some other means, then I assume you would have no qualms about reinstituting the program? Or even expanding it?”
“No, ma’am. None at
all. As a matter of fact, there have been some rumors floating around among the inmates recently that suggest the blade might have come from the outside. Nothing I’ve been able to substantiate so far, but—”
“Is that so? Well, Mr. Superintendent, if you can get to the bottom of it and find out if the rumors are more than rumors, I’d definitely like to know about that.”
“Certainly, Governor. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Good. Thank you for your time, David. And keep up the good work.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, David was striding down a corridor that led to the cafeteria with even more than his usual energy and focus. When he saw Nancy exiting the cafeteria, talking with a red-eyed Ronda Bitters, a fairly recent arrival, he interrupted their conversation.
“Deedee?” Nancy said. “Oh yes. I saw her a few minutes ago. But she’d finished eating and was getting ready to leave. Probably went out to the courtyard for a cigarette. I think Nita is out there too. I was surprised to see her back already. That flew by, didn’t it? And so peacefully.”
“Thank you,” David said without commenting, then continued on his way, taking a left at the end of the hall instead of a right and exiting a pair of double doors into the courtyard, which appeared to be empty.
However, the sound of voices coming from the northwest corner, behind a bed of soon-to-bloom roses, caught his attention and he began walking in that direction. When the volume and intensity of the voices increased and was followed by a shout of surprise and pain, he started running.
Though the faces and bodies were obscured by the rosebushes, he saw two female forms circling each other like prizefighters before a bout, their movements tense and erratic, searching for an opening, a weakness to exploit, a hole through which to escape.
David ran as fast as he could, arms and legs pumping, adrenaline flooding his body, breath coming in bursts. When he was just a few yards away, the larger figure lunged and the smaller shrieked in anguish. David shouted as loud as he could, roaring warnings and demands. The figures froze for an instant, startled by the sound, then turned toward him.
He saw the silver glint of steel and the sickening red of gushing blood. He heard another cry of pain, this time his own, as the larger figure lunged again and he flung himself forward, putting himself between the smaller woman and the blade.
Chapter 44
In the middle of May, after weeks of dithering between dreary weather and fine, spring finally seemed to make up her mind about staying. This delay and indecision was annual and irritating, but once it had passed, Hope, like every other resident of the Pacific Northwest, quickly forgave and forgot, making the most of the sunny season.
Knowing it would be busy on a Saturday morning, she arrived at the coffee roasters early, hoping to snag a table by the sun-drenched front window. After ordering a large iced latte and half a dozen crispy, buttery French palmiers cookies, she leaned casually against the counter and sipped coffee through a straw, trying not to look like she was stalking people, even though she absolutely was.
The moment two young mothers with four preschoolers between them shifted their chairs back and started swiping up a small mountain of cookie crumbs, crumpled napkins, and broken crayons, Hope swooped in. “Oh, are you leaving? Do you mind? Don’t worry about the crumbs. Let me take care of cleaning up. It looks like you’ve got your hands full.” Since two of the four preschoolers had started to howl piteously, the young mothers gratefully accepted her offer.
McKenzie, looking like a balloon in danger of bursting, wearing a voluminous maternity dress and her only shoes that fit, a pair of blue Crocs, waddled through the door just as Hope finished wiping down the table. “Oh, good! You got us a seat by the window. It’s such a pretty day.”
Mandy arrived a couple of minutes later, looking around the café with an anxious expression until Hope caught her eye and waved her over. After introducing the two younger women, Hope hopped up from the table to place another order.
“Kenz, I know you’ll want a chai. Iced or hot?”
“Iced, please. Large. And can you get some more cookies?”
“Sure. Mandy? What do you want?”
Mandy pressed her lips together. The anxious look returned to her eyes.
“I don’t know. Just coffee? I’ve never been to one of these places before.”
“Plain coffee?” McKenzie shook her head. “Uh-uh. Take a walk on the wild side. Get a chai. Or a mocha latte. You like chocolate?”
Mandy smiled. “Who doesn’t?”
“Got it,” Hope said. “One large iced chai. One large iced mocha. And six more palmiers. Is that all?”
“Some muffins?” McKenzie asked, making a pitiful “please, Mommy” face. “Your grandchild is starving.”
“As usual.” Hope chuckled. Mandy reached toward her purse, but Hope waved her off. “No, no. I’ve got it. This is your Coming Out party. You and McKenzie stay here and get to know each other. I’ll get the food.”
A line had formed at the counter, so Hope had to wait a few minutes before placing her order, but that was fine; she was in no hurry. By the time she returned, Mandy looked far more at ease. The two young women were gabbing like girlfriends and seemed to have hit it off, just as Hope had thought they would.
“Oh, I know,” Mandy said, shaking her head in sympathy. “The last month before I had Talia the only thing I could fit into was flip-flops. And it was February. My feet were so cold they looked like two big, fat, blue slugs. It was awful.” Mandy laughed. “When are you due?”
“Three more weeks,” McKenzie sighed. “I wish I could have her right now. Today. I’ve been thinking about swallowing an eviction notice so she’ll get the hint.”
“Not today,” Hope said, passing out the beverages after taking her seat. “I need to get back over to your place and finish wallpapering the nursery.”
“She means re-wallpapering,” McKenzie said. “I tried to do it on my own and made a total mess of it. It was totally crooked and the edges came up.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Hope said. “You didn’t have the right tools, that’s all.”
“She’s being kind,” McKenzie said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning closer to Mandy. “It was a complete disaster. You see, Mandy, though I come from a long line of domestic divas, the crafty gene seemed to skip me. Well . . . except for crocheting. As it turns out, I am pretty good at that.”
“Much better than me,” Hope said.
“Not true,” McKenzie said. “At least not yet. But I’m getting better. I finished the sweater last night. Do you want to see?”
Responding to Hope’s and Mandy’s eager assurances in the affirmative, McKenzie reached into her purse and pulled out a tiny pink cardigan with raglan sleeves. Seeing it, Mandy clutched her hand to her chest.
“Awww. It’s so teeny and cute!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t look too close. I messed up in a couple of places,” McKenzie said. “But I don’t think it’s too terrible. Not for my first sleeves. It was a lot harder than the hat.”
“I think you did a great job,” Hope said.
“Me too,” Mandy added. “I could never make something like that.”
“But you can sew,” McKenzie said. “Mom showed me your quilt before she gave it to the governor. It was just gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I had a pretty good teacher,” Mandy said, looking toward Hope. “Any word on how that went?”
“With the governor?” Hope asked, shaking her head when Mandy nodded. “She promised she’d look into it when she got back from her travels, but—nothing. At least not yet. But you never know,” Hope said with more conviction than she felt. “The governor really loved your quilt. Purple is her favorite color too. Something still might come of it.”
“I hope so,” Mandy said, her eyes downcast as she picked up one of the palmiers and broke it in half. “I feel bad that the quilting program was canceled because of me.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Hop
e said firmly. “It wasn’t.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Mandy mumbled, crumbing the edge of the cookie.
McKenzie shifted her gaze to her mother and then, rightly reading Hope’s silent permission to change the subject, she said, “So how are things going for you? Does it feel good to be out? Or weird?”
Mandy smiled a little. “Both, I guess. It’s not like how I thought it would be. The halfway house is okay. The food is way better than it was at the prison. But I can’t sleep at night. Too quiet.” She puffed out a little laugh. “Who would ever have thought that I’d miss all that racket, huh? I guess I just got used to it.
“I miss my friends, too. Funny thing is, I didn’t really start thinking of them as my friends until right before I got out. But you get close to people after a while, you know? I spend a lot of my free time writing letters to the girls. Deedee wrote back, but it was mostly pictures. I don’t really know anybody on the outside.
“Well, I do,” Mandy said. “But my old friends are part of the reason I ended up getting into trouble, so I’m steering clear of them. And, you know, my parents and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“What about Talia?” Hope asked. “Have you been able to see her?”
“Not yet. Diane is petitioning to get me some supervised visits. Thanks for getting her to take my case,” Mandy said, looking up. “I wouldn’t have a chance without her.”
“She’s a good lawyer,” Hope said. “I’m sure she’ll be able to make it happen.”
“I hope so,” Mandy said. “I’m trying not to think about it too much right now. Diane says that the best thing I can do to convince the court that I’m ready to take care of Talia is to find a job. So, I’m just trying to focus on that.”
“How’s it going?”
“No luck so far. I’ve filled out a bunch of applications, fast-food places mostly. But they all have that question on the bottom: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ Of course I check off ‘yes.’ I have to. But then, when I hand it back in and the manager sees that, even if he was real friendly before, he stops smiling and says he’ll call if they’re interested. No calls yet,” Mandy said. “Big jerks.
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